


Mother Tongue

by NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Right?, Same old same old, rough middle, you guys know me by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable/pseuds/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable
Summary: Based on the headcanon that Liam and Killian spoke bits of Irish together when they were alone, something they learned from their mother.  Angsty with a happy ending, I promise.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ice_Cube44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Cube44/gifts).



> This was created for January Joy, which the fandom organised so brilliantly, but it's also a gift to @icecubelotr44 for being so patient with me and hanging out and just being an awesome friend no matter what was going on. Thanks.

It was their secret, just the three of them.  

Liam, Mother, and him.  

A few words here and there at first, stolen whispers of a lullaby at night, her soft lilting voice calming Killian no matter what the language was.  He was never told to keep it a secret, but somehow he just knew.  Father was the outsider, when he was home at least.  Mother was different, when Father was around.  She was colder, more contained, and somehow Killian just knew.

Killian seemed to notice everything that happened in the little house on the hill, felt it somewhere deep inside where there were no words, only knowing, feeling, understanding.  He saw, he knew.  Father didn’t understand about Mother’s secrets.  They weren’t his to know.

Only Liam, Mother, and him.

He knew what her words meant - the cadence, the rhythm, the unmistakable sweetness in every syllable.  He knew without being told.  And even when he wasn’t sure about a particular phrase, he knew it meant home, and that was enough.

Mother spoke it more often when Father was away.  Killian didn’t even know it had a name, until Liam asked her one morning in the garden.  He was certain his older brother had broken some code in asking, some unwritten rule that would shatter the magic forever.

“Irish,” she replied, as hesitant note creeping into her voice.  “It’s called Irish, Liam.  I knew it as a little girl, and you’ll know it too.”

They never discussed it again.

He learned so many words in the secret language he refused to name, even in his own mind.  Mother would speak in her quiet voice, switching from her native tongue to English without pause.  Killian could do it too, after a time.  Liam took longer, but he caught on soon enough.  They both knew, without conversation, not to speak the magic words around Father.  This was Mother’s secret, and now theirs.

They’d speak as much of it as they remembered while playing at the shore, helping in the garden, whispering in their room at night.  He and Liam made their own jokes, silly lines understood only by them, plays on words.  They shared a few with Mother.  She smiled, a glint in her eye, a faraway look on her face as Killian described the newest phrase they’d come up with, the newest line that made them laugh.

She came to their room to sing to them late at night, when she was sure her boys would be asleep.  Killian fought to stay awake some nights, waiting for the soft padding of his mother’s bare feet as she crept into their room, settled herself between their two beds, her back to the hard wall.  He didn’t understand why she’d come to them in the dark, leaving her warm bed to sit on the floor with him and Liam.  He didn’t ask, either.

He listened instead, for the quiet beginnings of a song he knew from birth, the notes rising and falling and the sweet, familiar voice he knew better than his own.  He could sing along - he almost did a few times, catching himself before she heard him.  He listened instead, the melody lulling him to peaceful sleep.

She never sang when Father was home.

And one day, she was gone.

He never heard her voice again, except in the memories he’d revisit at times.

* * *

They had no time to play on the ships.  Only work, only jobs, tasks they had to do, orders they had to follow.  There were no games, no jokes, no laughter.  But sometimes in the dark, their hammocks rocking with the motion of the waves, they shared a few words with each other.  Their secret language.

Liam and him.

It made Killian sad, at first. To hear the words he missed so much.  The accent, the sounds, the music that meant home while they were so far from theirs.  The first time Liam offered a gentle word of comfort in his mother’s secret language he hid his face under the thin blanket wrapped around himself, clenched his jaw tightly and his fists tighter, willing away the tears that burned behind his eyes.  

Crying wouldn’t bring her back.  Crying wouldn’t bring them home.  Crying would do nothing at all, he knew.  

He wiped his eyes and didn’t cry again.

After that, it made him mad.  Angry, furious, his vision going red at the thought of the unfairness they’d suffered, the bastard they called Father abandoning them in the middle of the night for boat.  Liam saw, of course.  Liam understood.  Liam stopped, eventually, stopped reminding him of the place they used to live, the home they used to have, the woman who loved them both.  They didn’t speak a word of Irish after that.

But Killian didn’t forget, he never forgot.  Even as the years went by, as the hours of labour piled up in his memory, the ache in his muscles, the pain in his bones, he never forgot her voice.  He could swear he heard her lullaby as he drifted off to sleep some nights, as clearly as if she was sitting beside him again.

The memory of her music washed away his anger.

* * *

In the Navy, everything changed.  In the Navy, they were free.  In the Navy, they started to bring back the long-buried words they used to know so well.

Liam and him.

Killian was the first to bring back a word.  Just one.   _“Thanks_. _”_  Liam didn’t even recognise it wasn’t in English, at first.  He never acknowledged it, and Killian was grateful.

The words came back, slowly, dripping like melting snow as they grew used to their new routine.  A phrase here, a line there.  Soon they were laughing again, lines from their childhood shared between them.  Always in private, always their secret.  Their old jokes came back, new ones created, with memories of Mother never deep beneath the surface.

And one night, as they were lying in bed, the melody came back as well.  Killian let the tune play in his mind first, the memory overwhelming him as he listened to the echoes of her voice only he could hear.  He started humming, quietly, ever so softly.  He wasn’t sure Liam even heard him until his brother joined in with the words, Liam’s deeper voice joining along with his.

This time, Killian didn’t try to hide the tears that came to his eyes.  His tune, Liam’s voice, and the memory of their mother singing to them unlocked something inside him, something he thought he’d lost so many years before.

Hope.

For the first time since they were sold, Killian was sure they’d be okay.  Their past was firmly behind them, they had each other, they had a future.  They had whispered words of love to remember and a tune to carry them forward.  The brothers Jones were unstoppable, they could do anything they imagined.

When Liam died, Killian refused to speak another word of the language he once loved.

* * *

It’s almost time.  He’s read the books, he knows the signs.  She’s ready, she’s _ready_ , but he is not.  He’s had months to prepare, months to learn everything he needs to know, and still he’s not ready.  They pile in the car, head straight for the hospital.

Emma, the future little one, and him.

Emma’s done this before, he’s out of his depth.  Machines beeping, doctors rushing.  He stays at her side, holds her hand, whispers soft words of encouragement throughout.  It’s amazing, a true miracle, and he’s nearly overwhelmed that he’s allowed to have such happiness in his life.  A future, when so many he’s loved never got theirs.

A cry rings out, soft and shrill, and soon there’s a tiny bundle of pink cradled in Emma’s arms.  He can barely breathe, his chest is so tight, heart racing, pounding, as he memorises every moment.  Emma’s smile - tired but full, the way her voice pitches higher as she coos to the little one, the gentle way she strokes the softest skin he’s ever felt.  He’s brimming with emotions he never thought he could feel until he’s bursting and still there’s more.  He takes in every scrunch of the baby’s nose, every small sound, the feel of her skin under his.

They’ve already decided on a name, one that meant more to both of them than any one name could.  They’ve known exactly what they’ve wanted to call the tiny person who is now a reality.

Hope.

Emma smiles at him, and he’s grinning so widely his cheeks hurt.  It’s real.  This is real.  His family, his true love, his child.  His _future_.  She offers him the newborn, wants him to have a turn to hold her.  He’s scared, at first.  Afraid to handle so delicate a treasure.  She passes the baby to him, and somehow he knows what to do.

He whispers hello, the baby’s eyes closed against the bright lights of the room.  He touches her cheek as he settles back in a chair.  Whispers nonsense, as he’s seen others do with babies so many times in the last few years.

Without thinking, a tune escapes his lips, one he’s not thought of in centuries.  He doesn’t realise it, at first, doesn’t notice until the words begin to flow as well, words he hasn’t pronounced in hundreds of years.  Words of love, words of family, words of hope.  He sings to his child, the song his mother sang to him, the song his brother sang with him, tears filling his eyes and blurring his vision.

For a moment, nothing else exists.  For a moment, there is no hospital or machines or doctors.  For a moment, it’s just them - his family - and the melody he sings, the tune winding around the people he loves most, connecting his past to his future.

Emma, Hope, and him.

He’ll share the song with Emma, speak as much of the language as he can remember with their child, teach her his mother’s tunes and his brother’s jokes.

It doesn’t have to be a secret any longer.


End file.
